ERNEST MURRAY 



A Deeam of Life 



WITH SONNETS. 



BY 

EEV. WILLIAM PINKNEY, D.D., 

OF MARYLAND. 



NETV-YORK : 

R. RUTTER, 82 AND 84 BEEKMAN STREET. 

1869. 



ySzsn 
In £t 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by 

KEY. WILL]A3I PESTKNEY, D.D., 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New- York. 



m IXCMAM>( 
»TV Of ll«»<HFSOT* 

Aral 8 Vi^ 



John A. Gray & Green, 

PRINTERS, 

16 and 18 Jacob Street, New- York. 



TO THE 

Young Members of Ascension Parish, 

WASHINGTON, D. C. 



These few sonnets — if sonnets they may be call- 
ed — written for my own amusement, to wliile 
away a leisure hour and banish weariness, I now 
dedicate to you, with the purpose of devoting 
the money they may yield to the Ladies' As- 
sociation, for the benefit of the church. If I 
could, I would convert your, young life into an 
exquisite sonnet; so musical in its flow and so 
rich in its imagery, that not one note of dis- 
cord should be heard and not one line blurred. 
Life may be made a poem — a bright and 
beautiful poem — full of noble thoughts and 
words well chosen, with picturings of hope so 
delicate and fair that no eye can contemplate 
them without pleasure and instruction. There 
must be, of necessity, something of tragedy in it. 



4 INTRODUCTION. 

something tliat is written in tears. But the 
tragedy may be so written that we may read 
it in the sunshine of smiles. This poem you 
are called upon to write. Each day must add 
a line. The heart has its sunshine. Let noth- 
ing put it in eclipse. The heart has its echoes. 
Let nothing hush the whispers of its love. 

I have indulged myself in a dream of life. 
Some may think it too highly colored, but still 
it is life as it should be, and as, by the grace 
of God, it may become. If I should, in this 
little unpretending volume, touch one chord of 
feeling in your bosom, or commimicate to you 
one thought worthy of being remembered, or be 
able to add a mite to the fund now in the hands 
of the working ladies of the parish, whose self- 
sacrificing labors have been my solace and my 
joy, I shall have attained all that I could desire. 

You will accept the ofiering as a pledge of 
no common love for those who have never failed 
in tender love to me. 

Your Pastor, 

"W. PiNKNEY. 



ERNEST MURRAY; 

OR, 

A DEEAM OF LIFE. 



A FOEM was bending low, in act of prayer. 
It was a mother, young in heart and hope. 
Two years had scarcely glided by since she 
Was to the altar led — a blushing bride. 
Her eyes were soft and clear. In hue they seemed 
So varied that it might well be questioned 
Whether they were gray or of darker shade. 
Her voice, so flute-like in its tone, that one 
Might fancy it the cooing of a dove, 
Was full of feeling. She was in stature 
Tall, the sweet embodiment of gentle grace. 
Her hair was like the raven's, black as jet, 
And hung in ringlets on her swanlike neck. 
Fond of their caress. Her head was moulded 
On a cast that nature seldom uses ; 
It seemed to rest upon the column carved 



To bear it gracefully. Her air was calm, 

Majestic like a queen's — there was no tinge 

Of haughtiness to mar the spell that wove 

Enchantment o'er the sphere she so adorned. 

And yet she was as gay as is the lark 

That greets the dawn. In her laughter there was 

A ring that woke an echo on the air, 

So full of joy that nothing could restrain 

The gladness of its note. Like bird uncaged 

She passed from bough to bough on outspread 

wing : 
Her life was sunshine. The dewdrops rested 
On the boughs, that in her heart were bending 
With luscious fruit. She was the fairest flower 
Kissed by the sun. Within the quiet sphere 
Of her companionship, there was not one 
Who envied her the beauty or the grace 
That in her shone. She was a child of faith. 
The sister graces, hope and love, were seen, 
Like stars that twinkle in the realms above, 
Distinct yet sweetly blended into one. 
Upon her brow the Bishop laid his hands. 
When she, in white arrayed, the vows renewed 
That bound her to the font. At the altar 
She as meekly knelt, while she there partook 
In tearful silence and in humble faith 
Of that rich banquet of Christ's flesh and blood. 

Her home was in a quiet nook beside 
A river which meandered through the plain. 
O'er which the trees their stalwart branches threw, 



OK, A DEEAM OF LIFE. 7 

To shelter from the sun. The cottage stood 

Amid the cluster of the waving trees ; 

And with its trellised portico o'erlooked 

The banks of the sweet, curving, woodland stream 

Which murmured at its feet. It was unique, 

So sweet in its simplicity, that e'en 

The tender vines, that o'er it crept, appeared 

To catch their hue from its rare modesty. 

Before it was a lawn of deepest green, 

While in the distance rose the mountain peak, 

On which there rested, when the day first dawned, 

A vapor of a thin, transparent blue, 

Which looked so like a veil that nature drops 

To shade but not conceal the face it hides. 

One tree was there, which graced that velvet 
lawn, 
And lent a beauty to the scene so rare, 
That none who once beheld could e'er forget 
The tulip'tree. Its proud top pierced the skies. 
Which dropped the dew upon its aged roots, 
And filled the branches with the juice of life. 
It stood alone. It seemed to spurn the thought 
That any other tree should dare obtrude 
Upon its chosen, stately solitude. 
No living man had seen it in the bud. 
And none could tell the day it first took root ; 
While on its brave old trunk a hundred names 
Were deep engraven. The hands that wrote them 
Are stiff and cold; but still the names remain. 
As fresh as when they were at first engraved, 



8 ERNEST MURRAY ; 

And will remain for ages. The secrets 
Of a hundred hearts, that once delighted 
To whisper to the night winds sighing there 
Of plighted love, that old tree sacred held. 
And not a leaf that trembled in the breeze 
The trust betrayed. 

It was beneath that tree. 
Upon whose boughs the blossoms gayly hung, 
That Julia heard the first sweet words of love 
Which wooed her as a bride. The time, the place 
Were aptly chosen. It was the spring time, 
When birds were light of wing, and lilies fair 
Breathed out their fragrance on the balmy air, 
And nature, lavish of her charms, gave out 
Her hidden wealth of bud, and flower, and fruit. 
Young Ernest Murray, fresh in manhood's bloom, 
Was all that woman's heart could wish or ask. 
In stature tall, of finely rounded form. 
He walked the earth as though he spurned to tread 
The very earth he trod so proudly on. 
His eyes were of a piercing, azure hue, 
And yet as soft as is the sky above. 
Which weeps the dew upon the violet 
That blows beneath. There was a nameless grace 
In his address, that charmed the heart it touched. 
Brave as a lion, he was in nature mild 
As is the lamb that on the hill-side roves. 
His heart was like a bed w^here roses slept, 
While every feeling gave the fragrance back 
That they so freely shed on earth and air. 



OE, A deea:m of life. 9 

He was admitted to the bar the day 

He first acknowledged me as friend of his, 

And for the first time plead a client's cause 

In open court. Xew to the scene he was, 

And tremulous with fear. But as he rose, 

He felt his power, nor faltered in debate. 

Excitement gaA^e new fervor to his mind. 

And then the current of his thoughts rolled on 

With a resistless force that swept away 

The cobwebs of a subtle sophistry 

Which others wove. His eye flashed fire. His 

tongue 
A tender pathos breathed which ne'er before 
Had swept the chords of feeling in the hearts 
Of jurors, who were sworn to sit upon 
A case whose issues were or life or death. 
The argument compact, conclusive, strong, 
Left not a plea for cavil or dispute. 
His metaphors, like diamonds richly strung 
On threads of gold, gave to his stern logic 
Such power that nothing could the spell resist ; 
While o'er the wave of argument he poured 
A wit so keen, so cutting and severe, 
It scathed with its resistless bolt whate'er 
Of argument it touched. From that day forth, 
He was the peer esteemed of those who stood 
The foremost in debate. His eloquence 
Was such as few could rival or excel. 
One heart had watched the progress of this cause. 
And caught the sweet contagion of the hour. 

1* 



10 



One eye was kindled into brighter glow, 
As he walked out that day a conqueror. 

With more enchanting eloquence he plead 
Another cause, before another court, 
And won the cause he plead. Love gave his tongue 
A sweeter tone — it breathed intenser power 
Into the working of his rich young mind. 
Julia became his wife at fair sixteen, 
And he became to her life's chiefest joy. 
He was the sun — she was the gentle moon. 
That gave reflection of his stronger light. 
He took her to the house he beautified, 
For he had wealth, as Avell as talents rare. 
That house was built upon the grandest plan. 
With massive porticoes whose columns were 
Huge blocks of marble. The workman's chisel 
Festooned it o'er with rose or violet. 
As delicate in shape as though they grew 
Out of the bed of stone. 

No pencil can 
The beauty sketch of the adjacent grounds, 
The rising mounds, the broad, extended lawn. 
The waterfalls, and jets, and inland lakes, 
All intersj^ersed with pure artistic taste. 
As far as eve could reach out from the door. 
With statues here and there so sweetly groujDcd, 
That you might fancy ancient Greece or Rome 
Were lavish of their gifts. The house within 
Was richly decked. The rooms most lofty were. 
While on the walls were hung most gracefully 



OE, A DREAM OF LIFE. 11 

The noblest works of all the great masters. 
From Titian down — a gallery of art, 
That marked the genius of a connoisseur. 

The contrast was so very strong between 
The quiet nook and cottage in the vale, 
Where Julia's childhood bloomed, and the grand 

house 
Which Ernest Murray for his bride prepared. 
That sometimes in her heart she fondly craved 
The seclusion left behind. Sometimes she 
Fancied there was far less of solitude 
Where breezes murmured through the nodding 

pines 
Than in the midst of life's most gilded scenes. 
There's something cold in grandeur — a something, 
That fails to move the inner soul of man ; 
Or else it is a fancy, deep ingrained. 
Which clothes the name of cottage with a spell. 
And weaves a fascination o'er the spot 
Which nature beautifies, not costly art. 
She was, however, happy as a bride. 
And reveled in the beautiful and bright, 
Which he who led her to the altar strewed 
With lavish hand. And she was proud of him. 
Proud of his manly heart, and eloquence 
Which was persuasive, yet, when on the flood, 
As mighty as the famed Niagara, 
And full as beautiful and grand as are 
Its foaming mass of waters deep and green. 



12 EKNEST MURRAY ; 

And full as terrible as is the roar 

That wakes its echoes on the rocky shore. 

One bud of beauty God had given them. 
It was a babe, with dimpled cheek, and eyes 
That seemed to be a duplicate of hers ; 
While in its features one could clearly trace 
Expression so like its noble father's. 
This little babe was gently rocked to sleep 
'Mid scenes surpassing beautiful and grand. 
The lull of falling waters gliding by 
Soothed it to rest, and when it woke at dawn, 
The song of birds, leaping from bough to bough. 
E'er greeted it. It hovered o'er the flowers. 
So like the humming-bird that tastes the sweets. 
Then passes on. No shadow on the disk 
Of its bright soul eclipsed the joy within. 
One link was needed to the chain of love ; 
That link was now supplied — a link so fair. 
That ano;el hands mio^ht well have fixed it there. 
There is a solitude, that haunts the heart, 
Which naught can break, unless it be a babe, 
Whose laughing eyes light up the densest gloom. 
And wake to music's spell the lonely hours. 
So leaden in their flight. Her day of birth 
Was sunny bright. N"o care then rested on 
The heart of Ernest and his gentle wife. 
Both felt that they were richer than before, 
In that sweet, golden link which served to make 
Love's chain not seem a fetter to the soul. 



OE, A DREAM OF LIFE. 13 

A few years passed, and then a little girl 
Was bounding on the lawn, beside the tree ; 
Her golden ringlets waved upon the breeze, 
Her tongue was lisj)ing liquid music there, 
Her footstep was so light it scarcely seemed 
To stir the leaves : 'twas like an angel's tread. 
Her mother's eye was resting on the child ; 
But ah ! her father was not seated there — 
A change was passing o'er his life's young dream. 

Out in the crowded city was a hall, 
'Adorned with all that could the eyes delight. 
It was magnificent — a gay saloon, 
Enriched with all the richest gems of art. 
The flowing cup was there— the sparkling wine, 
With all that makes a gambler's hell below. 
The loud uproarious laughter filled the air, 
And words that poison grated on the ear. 
Of those who entered. In that gilded hall, 
Ernest forgot his wife and guileless child, 
Alike unmindful of himself and them. 
Men called him eloquent, and so he was. 
Large draughts he drank of fascination's cup. 
His head grew dizzy on the dazzling height. 
And in a sad, unguarded hour, he fell 
A victim to a sinful appetite. 
And drowned his soul in drink. His lovely wife 
Was now deserted. His footstep grated 
On the ear that listened for its echo. 
He was but the sad wreck of what he was. 



14 ERNEST MURRAY; 

One day — it Avas a bright October day. 
The month of all the year most eloquent — 
Julia was seated near the portico. 
She gazed in sadness on the fallen leaves, 
That lay so crisp and sere upon the ground, 
And fancied she in them a type beheld 
Of leaves of hope that in her heart were dead. 
A stej) she heard approaching cautiously, 
And then a hand upon her arm was laid. 
And a low tone was whispered in her ear. 
It was so like the tone of other days. 
It seemed an echo of her early love, 
So sweet though sad. 'Twas no delusive spell, 
Xo mocking dream of her disordered brain. 
The muffled step, the touch, the gentle tone 
Were too familiar to her ear and heart, 
To be mistaken for a phantom dream 
Sent to mock her. 'Twas Ernest standing there. 
As he had stood in her first bridal hour ; 
And on his features, pale with silent grief, 
She caught the traces of his long lost smile. 
While in his manly voice her quick ear caught 
The same sweet tones that thrilled her soul with 

joy. 

On her he looked, and then upon their child, 
And every glance revealed the woe within 
That tortured him. She took his hand in hers, 
Then meekly said, " Ernest, the past is sweet. 
Why should it a dream, an idle dream ? 
Oil ! tell me why should life be changed to thee ? 



OE, A deea:^ of life. 15 

God gave thee talents such as few possess — 

The mighty power that breathes itself in words. 

He gave thee judgment, wit, and memory ; 

And what is greater still, He gave to thee 

That crowning gift, which others envy most. 

Imagination, with her magic wand, 

The great creative faculty. He gave 

A home to thee, made beautiful by art, 

A fond, confiding wife, and one fair child. 

Thou knowest that not a word of harsh rebuke 

Escaped these lips. In silence and in tears 

Thy Julia bore the great indignity 

To which thou didst subject her. Xo murmur 

Grated on thy ear in her deep sorrow. 

Alone I watched beside our daughter's crib, 

In which she slept so soundly. Bright cherubs 

Hovered o'er us, so lonely and so sad. 

And if those tears had but a tongue to speak. 

That tongue would utter words most eloquent, 

In proof of patience which no words can tell. 

I've prayed for thee, " oft in the stilly night ;'' 

And when the town-clock, on the stately tower, 

Told out the hours, from midnight to the dawn, 

And every stroke was as a hammer laid 

On this poor, bleeding, anguished heart of mine. 

And every stroke seemed but articulate 

Of the woe that then and there consumed me, 

I thought of thee and of the halcyon days 

Which flew more swiftly than the arrow sent 



16 ERNEST MUREAY; 

From the bent bow — which flying, left behind 
No mark of footsteps on the parted clouds. 
I thought of her who, in her quiet sleep, 
Was all unwatched save by that angel eye, 
And this dimmed, anxious, tearful eye of mine, 
Who, waking up from sleep, should never know 
A father's soothing care. O Ernest ! did 
The wine-cuj), as it sparkled, ever yield 
One moment's peace or one true joy to thee ? 
That gilded hall ! did e'er its echoes thrill 
Thy soul like those sweet echoes of the past, 
Which speak to thee of pleasure fl.own ? Ernest, 
Are not the chambers of thy soul now dark, 
Which once were lighted up with hope serene ; 
And that sweet bird, which never left the bough 
In thy young heart, from dawn to close of day, 
But trilled its notes of blithesome song, each hour, 
As though 'twould singing die, is it not fled ? 
Go view the desolation scattered o'er 
The beauteous fields, where wave the grass and 

flowers. 
By the tornado's breath or earthquake shock ; 
Go speak unto the genius of the storm, 
And listen to its tale of dismal wrecks ; 
Those fields may feel once more the sun's warm 

breath, 
And smile w^ith tender grass and blushing flower. 
The calm upon those seas may w^elcome back 
The fragile sails, by ruthless winds so torn. 
But ah ! the wounded heart is hard to heal. 



OR, A DREAM OF LIFE. l7 

The scars once made must ever tell the hand 
That first inflicted, and then left them there. 
That power to heal is thine. The light of life 
Thou canst once more recall. The fragrant rose 
Thou canst restore to cheeks that paled are, 
The leaves of hope recover from the blast. 
And bid them wave anew within the heart, 
And drink the dew-drop of returning love, 
And quiver in the sun. The drooping flower 
And this just opening bud, thy wife and child. 
Thou canst in sunshine bathe more easily j 
Than yonder sun the fragrant rose that fades 
Within its bed. Thou canst a fairer shade 
To them afi'ord than yonder tulip-tree. 
Thou canst thy wife and child from woe redeem, 
And once again thyself be conqueror, 
'Tis only needful that the vow be made 
No more to touch the wine-cup as it flows, 
And never more that gilded gambler's hell 
Frequent." 

Her lips had scarcely breathed the words, 
Ere Ernest turned aside a tear to hide ; 
And when again on her his eye he turned, 
His little daughter sat beside him there. 
There was no sound upon her ruby lip, 
The heart was all too full for utterance. 
Too young she was the cause to understand 
Of her mother's fevered brow and pale cheekj 
But still she knew there was some secret pang, 



1 8 EKNEST MURRAY ; 

So closely laid to her poor, aching heart. 

That it did seem to love to torture it. 

The stars above she knew had gone to rest 

Behind their canopy of softest blue, 

While that sweet mother lengthened out the watch ; 

And often when the angels folded o'er 

The little crib their golden wings of love, 

And she was thought to be in deepest sleep, 

She heard her mother's burning words of prayer. 

And wondered what it was that bowed a form 

So like an angel's at the mercy-seat. 

When other eyes were closed. One little tear 

Was resting on the eyelid of the child ; 

So meek it was that, like the one pale star. 

Which bids the sun at setting a farewell. 

And greets the eve, when it with dewy breath 

Invites the weary traveler to repose. 

It seemed to wish to hide its beauty there. 

One little rose-bud in her soft, white hand 

She held. It did upon the ambient air 

Sweet perfume shed. She placed it in his hand. 

And smiled her welcome in her soft gray eye — 

Then laid her head in silence on his breast, 

And felt she had another heart to love. 

He gazed delighted on the touching scene, 

Then said : " Returning home, two nights ago. 

My brain on fire, and this sad heart of mine 

Well-nigh as desolate as is the earth 

Where all is shriveled by the Simoon's breath, 

I saw the moon within her tranquil sphere. 



OE, A drea:m: of life. 19 

On which the stars that glistened in the sky 

So bashful looked. The air was very still. 

Xot e'en a passing breeze the leaflet stirred. 

The winds were in their caverns fast asleep). 

It seemed to me that spiiits from above 

Then hovered o'er the pathway where I trod ; 

And in my heart I heard a voice so sweet 

That an ^olian harp might envy it. 

It was the breath of conscience. I listened. 

It told me of the frenzied spell, that wove 

A chain more galling than the galley weaves 

To bind its victim to the hated oar. 

And then it did a pencil take in hand, 

And o'er the canvas throw its mellow hues, 

So rich in tint that they were hke to life. 

My home, my wife, my child were in the group 

I saw upon the glowing canvas there ; 

And then I saw the grand old tulip-tree, 

Where first I pledged to thee my early love. 

I saw the wine-cup in its fiercest rage. 

The gay saloon, which tempted me to stray, 

And seared my souL I looked up at the moon. 

She seemed to chide me. The stars were vocal. 

And every whisper told the deadly sin 

Which plunged me in the slough of dark despair. 

The spirits of the air looked sadly down 

Upon the madness of my lost estate, 

And poised their golden wings, as though they 

would 
Enwrap me in their dazzling folds of light. 



20 EEXEST MUEEAY ; 

My conscience, like an echo from the skies, 
Proclaimed that God was speaking then to me. 
I heard the voice. It floated on the air. 
It was the whisper of the Holy Dove. 
This is the way. Oh ! turn not thou aside 
From duty to thy God, and fair young bride. 
I knelt upon the earth. 'Twas cold and still. 
I pledged to God, in earnest, fervent prayer, 
That I would henceforth strive to be a man. 
I came to thee, this very night, to breathe 
This vow into my Julia's eager ear, 
And on thy dimpled cheek once more impress 
The kiss of love. That vow I now renew. 
Xo more shall yonder moon shine down on thee 
In loneliness. jSTo more, my gentle bride, 
Shall midnight hours strike sadness on thy heart. 
God for my helj), the star of love shall soar 
As near to thee as to the pallid moon 
The star of eve is ever wont to soar. 
Once more to business Ernest Murray goes. 
The path of honor he will bravely tread, 
Thou shalt thyself the garland bind around 
This brow, no longer furrowed o'er by sin. 
But stamped by God with His own signet-ring." 

Arm in arm, they to the house repaired. 
Beside them, with a heart that leaped for joy. 
Their little daughter, like a bird uncaged. 
Poured liquid music on the fresh night air. 
As she kept step to music in their hearts, 
Of which she was the key of harmony. 



OE, A DREAM OF LIFE. 21 

Time passed on rapid wing. None heeded 
now 
His flight, for he on roses stepped. Within 
That household, peace delighted dwelt. 
And o'er it love its golden wing spread out. 
Four other buds upon the parent stem 
In time apjTeared. Each drank of gentle dew, 
And to the changeful scene enchantment lent. 
For each was brightly tinted by the sun. 

One day — it was a bleak, December day. 
The snow was driving o'er the icy plain — 
The clouds were black. In deep, portentous gloom. 
They hung upon the framework of the skies. 
Ernest had gone to court, a cause to plead 
That called for all his gifts of eloquence. 
The room was crowded. A deathless silence 
Brooded o'er that crowd. When this young lawyer 
Arose to speak, and with a tuneful tongue 
First moved the passions, then the will subdued. 
He looked the orator. His manly form 
Seemed the embodiment of power and grace. 
The finger raised, the lip curled up with scorn. 
The eye that like a meteor darted o'er 
The crowd who hung upon his lips that day. 
The action mild or bold, that suited well 
The sentiment that craved an \itterance. 
Were all conclusive proof that he was born 
An orator. An advocate he was. 
Whom any land might boast to call its own. 
His speech was wonderful. Never before 



22 ERNEST MURRAY ; 

Had Ernest Murray won a brighter fame, 
Or proved himself to be more eloquent. 
He took his seat amid the loud applause 
That from a hundred lips now greeted him. 
The case he gained. With laurels justly earned, 
As meekly borne, he from the court withdrew. 
'Twas evening. The storm increased in^fury; 
The snow-flakes darkened all the air around. 
It was a fearful night the storm to breast. 
His friends besought him to await the dawn ; 
But he had promised never more to leave 
His Julia longer than stern duty called, 
And he the vow must keep. Out in the storm 
He ventured forth that eve. He fondly hoped 
His knowledge of the way would guide him safe. 
For miles he traveled on, nor lost his way. 
The darkness darker grew. His noble steeds 
Could little progress make througli heaps of snow 
And then, oh ! then, in that dark winter night, 
No cottage near, no human voice to cheer, 
As he supposed, the snow-flakes as they fell* 
Freezing the current of his heart's young blood. 
Without a guide, bewildered, sad, and lost, 
He found himself upon the road alone. 
He called, but only could the winds be heard. 
On that dark, sleety, cold, December night. 
The storm absorbed all sounds into itself. 
His cloak he wrapped around him, then calmly 
Braved the peltings of the remorseless blast, 
As on it swept. Ernest was bold in heart. 



OK, A DREAM OF LIFE. 23 

He knew no fear ; and if to die was all 
That he could do, he was resolved to die 
As those in Christ are ever wont to die. 
He thought of Julia and his happy home. 
The thought was sadness to his beating heart. 
The winds that howled upon the snow-white plain 
Are far less fierce than those which sweep across 
The path earth's pilgrims tread, and sooner lulled. 
His snow-white shroud around him, on he pressed, 
But found he could not further progress make. 
The picture of his wife before him stood, 
And as the icy breath lay near his heart, 
A prayer to God he breathed on her behalf. 
And then as meekly prayed that God would save 
The sinner, who through faith nov»^ looked to 

Him, 
And felt his prayer was answered. Serenely 
He waited now the closing act to see. 

Julia was seated by her sleeping babes. 
Who, all unconscious of the storm without. 
Were in a land of sweet forgetfulness. 
Her heart was heavy. Where was Ernest now ? 
He told her he would return the moment 
When, disengaged from court, he could return. 
And that was this dark, dismal night. She sighed. 
She could not sleep. The beating of her heart 
Disturbed her — a strange, mysterious sadness 
Hung, like a pall, upon her waning hope. 
Rising from her chair, she to the window 
Slowly moved — the shutters now were closed. 



24 EKNEST MURRAY; 

She threw them back, and thus a light revealed 
Out on the pathway of that driving storm. 
That light was as a beacon sent to guide 
Her dying Ernest to his loving bride ; 
That light he saw, and by its glimmer traced 
His weary way, through heaps of driven snow, 
And found that he was close beside the door 
Of his own dwelling on that fearful night. 
He stood upon the threshold. Gratitude 
His inmost soul absorbed. He was at home, 
And that was cause for earnest, fervent prayer. 
She knew his step, his dear, familiar tread. 
And with a bound she bade him enter there. 
All through that night she nursed him tenderly. 
And God was merciful her watch to bless. 
A quiet sleep and her restoratives 
Were all he needed to bring back again 
The roses to his pale and stiffened cheeks. 
'Twas beautiful to see the holy joy 
That kindled into brighter flame the eye 
Of Julia and her five fair, sunny babes. 
The morning that succeeded that dark night. 
They could scarce believe that, while they slum- 
bered. 
And angel wings defended them from harm. 
Their father was to that bleak storm exposed, 
In snow-shroud wrapt, meekly awaiting death. 
Each with the other vied in deeds of love. 
One brought a flower, protected from the cold, 



OR, A DREAM OF LIFE. 25 

And nursed with care — a flower just in the bud, 
And gently placed it in his open vest. 
Another brought a cluster of sweet grapes, 
Fresh from the vine ; and still another brought 
A flowing curl of her dark auburn hair, 
Set in a locket made of burnished gold. 
Each had a kiss for him, as fresh and pure 
As is the breath of perfumed violets ; 
And when the bell tolled out the hour for prayer. 
And Ernest took his large old Bible down. 
To read some chapter of its thrilling scenes, 
That lovely group around the altar knelt 
In reverential awe and tearful faith. 

A providence so marked did well deserve 
Some touching tribute of a grateful heart. 
So Ernest thought, when to his wife he said. 
What monument shall I to God erect ? 
She raised her eyes, in which a tear-drop stood, 
And said that it a Gothic church should be. 
Near by, there was a grove of forest trees, 
Upon the summit of a rising hill ; 
A little rivulet was flowing there, 
Whose source was in a spring perennial. 
It was a spot which nature seemed to form 
Whereon to rear a temple built for God, 
The wife's suggestion met her husband's view ; 
It was so beautiful, so meet and fit, 
That he at once received it as his own. 
It should a temple be, magnifical. 
Of marble shaped by cunning artisan, 
2 



26 EPvXEST HUrvKAY ; 

With vaulted ceiling formed of oaken wood, 
With Avindows jDointed and a pointed roof, 
And tower in which five bells of sweetest tone 
Should ring their chimes upon the vesper breeze, 
And call to prayer at matins. With ivy 
Creeping along its massive walls of stone. 
A recess chancel, with its solid altar. 
O'er which a cross shall stand, the only sign 
That e'er should greet the eye of worshiper, 
Was in the grand design that Ernest formed. 
Stone on stone was laid, and soon the temple 
In beauty rose upon the rising mound, 
Of purest Gothic, of the olden school. 
No mixture in the architecture marred 
The fair proportions of the house he reared. 
The temple built, a deep-toned organ filled 
The grove with melody. A well-trained choii* 
Led in those grand old chants, which still survive. 
The echoes of an age that long will live. 
When other echoes die — the sweetest tones 
That earth can waft this side the gate of heaven. 
A priest of God, a man most meek of heart. 
Who felt the weight of his great, awful charge. 
Who was most eloquent in word and thought. 
Beside the altar knelt — arrayed in white, 
A symbol of the purity that should 
Distinguish those who at the altar kneel. 
He was as simple in his tastes as he 
Was free from pride. His thoughts were all of 
heaven. 



OE, A DEEAM OF LIFE. 27 

He was an earnest, unctions man of God — 

A tender shepherd, who his flock led out 

To pastures green, w^here they could always rove 

Beside the waters still on Zion's mount. 

He most delighted in the chamber where 

The sick were laid. He loved to watch beside 

Their bed of pain, to soothe the aching heart. 

And on it pour the ointment of a love 

Most pitiful. He loved to sit at eve, 

In some secluded hamlet with the poor, 

Whom he esteemed his chiefest treasure here. 

But most of all the bleating lambs he loved — 

The children which the Master bade him nurse, 

And train in faith for heaven. He, blessing, broke 

The bread he blessed — then to the hungry gave 

The body and the blood, a banquet rich, 

Which God provides, that all may eat and live. 

Himself was nothing. Christ was all in all. 

It was not he who lived, but Christ in him. 

The temple reared must now be set apart 
From common uses to the use of God. 
'Twas consecration which alone could give 
The work a finish, which the mind absorbed 
Of Ernest Murray. It was the spring-time. 
The air was soft. Bright tints were on the sky. 
The zephyrs whispered of the breath of flowers. 
While from their icy bondage all the streams 
Emancipated were, on hill and dale. 
The cooing dove for flight her wings had plumed. 
And on the air her notes of sadness poured. 



28 EEXEST MUPwRAY ; 

All nature seemed to revel in repose. 

The day selected for the solemn rite 

Was lovely. The sun was out in beauty. 

No cloud was on the ovex'arching sky. 

The first fair flowers of May looked up with joy, 

And the ^reen leaves that trembled on the boug:hs 

Of their joy partook — while hearts delighted 

Held companionship with them. Side by side. 

The young and old, the maiden and the child, 

The manly form just budding into life, 

The form that withered was by touch of age, 

Had to the spot repaired. The chime of bells 

Was heard, afar and near. The Gothic church 

Had never looked so beautiful before. 

Ernest and Julia, with hearts too full 

To utter all the tenderness of love 

That stirred their souls on that bright morn of 

May, 
The threshold crossed. On bended knee they 

bowed 
To ask that God to them their gift would bless. 
The Bishop, robed in lawn, with measured step 
Was moving up the aisle, absorbed in thought. 
The surpliced priests were there — the deacons grave 
The procession closed. The sight was thrilling. 
So vast a throng had never passed before 
Up to the temple gates, at hour of prayer. 
The service ended, the Bishoj) meekly 
In the pulpit rose, and with trembling voice 
A sermon preached, full of heart eloquence. 



OR, A DKEAM OF LIFE. 29 

Profound in argument, it was as rich 

In pathos as it was original. 

The illustrations were most apposite. 

At times the preacher soared on wing so bold, 

That every heart grew still beneath the spell ; 

And then again his tones so plaintive were, 

That tear-drops hung on eyes that seldom wept. 

He was a Bishop such as once watched o'er 

The sheep-fold which the loving Saviour left. 

To rove awhile through earth's bleak wilderness. 

No fevered dreams of power his soul disturbed. 

No selfish aims e'er tempted him from right. 

To wear the mitre or the crook to bear, 

Those symbols of a pure Episcopate, 

Had never crossed the disk of his meek mind. 

He was the father of the flock he led. 

Each sheep he knew by name. Each tender lamb 

Was laid in love upon his large, brave heart. 

He came as often as the call was heard. 

And lingered long enough the wants to know 

Of his united rural diocese. 

'Twas beautiful to see this gifted man, 

Whose nights were spent in study of the past. 

In converse with the i^oor. He loved to sit. 

In twilight hour, beside the cottage door. 

And breathe in humble ears the touching tale 

Of Calvary. Unmindful of the rich 

He never was. But still a dearer charge 

He felt he had among the stricken poor. 

His footsteps lingered in the scented vale. 



30 ERNEST MURRAY; 

Where lilies bear the dew-drops on their bells ; 
Not on the mountain crests where cedars wave, 
Those lofty cedars, which their heads lift u]) 
Among the clouds that like a mantle hang 
In beauty o'er the wild romantic scene. 

The house, now consecrate to God, was left 
Out on the rising hill, beside the stream, 
A witness of the fervor and true zeal 
Of Ernest Murray and his noble wife. 
Each peaceful Sunday, from its chime of bells, 
It woke an echo in the deep, dense grove. 
That soothed to rest the overburdened heart 
With hopes of heaven. The ivy-vested tower 
In grandeur rose upon the view — the spire 
Pointed to the skies — the Gothic windows. 
Of rich stained glass, whose " dim religious light " 
Subdued and thrilled the lowly worshiper. 
With pointed arch looked up beyond the sun. 
That tower a telling symbol was of God, 
Who is a tower and refuge of defense 
To those who in His word of j^romise trust. 

Time sped on rapid wing. Those five fresh buds 
Had blossomed into flower. They were so fresh. 
That zephyrs lingered of their sweets to taste. 
And suns delig^hted on their leaves to rest. 
Unlike in form, in features so unlike. 
They were alike most strangely beautiful. 
One had a soft blue eye — another gray — 
One hazel, and another darker brown — 
One black as jet, that sparkled as it slione. 



OK, A DREAM OF LIFE. 31 

Thek forms were cast in beauty's varying mould, 

Their dispositions varied full as much : 

And yet they harmonized, like chords within 

The harp that minstrels sweep so tenderly. 

One was the soul of music. Another 

With easel loved to sketch the landscape, where 

The trees their shadows cast, and tinted flowers 

Look up into the face of day and smile. 

Or else where mountains with their peaks overlook 

The rivers, as they glide amid the plains. 

Another nature studied — its secrets, 

From shrub to insect tribes that swarm the air. 

Her thoughts engrossed, With microscope in hand, 

She pierced the vail that o'er their being hung. 

And still another loved to linger where 

The mighty poets dream, as bold of wing 

As they are steady in their upward flight. 

And when the night shades gathered slowly round 

The hearthstone, where these five fresh buds took 

root. 
They with each other vied in deeds of love, 
To make their home a paradise of peace. 
One swept the harp. From all its trembling 

strings 
She drew the soul of music to enchant 
The ear. Another took a picture down 
So like to life, that one could scarcely tell 
It did not on the canvas move and breathe. 
Another did a plant reveal to view. 
Whose texture was a marvel to the eve. 



32 ERNEST MURRAY ; 

While still another did the words repeat 

Of some sweet poem of a gifted muse. 

Or else the touching narrative recite 

Of scenes more wonderful than poet's dreams. 

Who wonders that the moments swiftly flew 

Which loves so blended SAveetened into joy? 

How strange it is, that homes so checkered here, 

Should know no sunshine in the falling tear ; 

That hearts, which are so closely intertwined 

Should love to beat in solitude apart. 

Ernest and Julia gazed with joy serene 

Upon those dewy, cheerful hours of eve ; 

And often did their prayer to God ascend 

That he those lambs from pending harm would 

shield. 
One deep, dark shadow rested on the heart 
Of Ernest. It crossed his path so slowly 
That he could scarcely tell the way it came. 
There was a hectic flush upon the cheek 
Of Julia. His quick eye the sign discerned 
Of that disease, so dreaded by true love. 
The thought he strove to banish from his mind. 
But still it haunted him by day and night. 
One day, as he was seated by her side. 
Her hand in his, her eyes so dazzling bright, 
Upon her cheek a rosebud softly lay. 
She said : " O Ernest ! thou art dear to me. 
Dearer than in my first gay bridal hour. 
I love to saunter in the sunshine, where 
Thy love for me was like the rising sun ; 



OR, A DREAM OF LIFE. 33 

And in the silent hour of eve I love 
To sit beside thee and our children dear ; 
But better far I love, in yon sweet grove, 
With thee to sit each peaceful Sabbath morn, 
Beneath the vaulted roof we built for God. 
I had a dream last night. It lingers still 
Upon thy Julia's heart this balmy hour. 
I dreamed that in an isle in yonder clouds, 
Far up above those heights of softest blue, 
"Within a city built of purest gold. 
Which hath no need of sun or waning moon. 
Where sickness ne'er invades, nor gloomy death, - 
There was a mansion fitted up with care. 
I thought an angel band, on outstretched wing, 
Were waiting to conduct me to the home 
Which they would condescend to share with me. 
Waking, I felt it was no phantom dream. 
Thy Julia is a victim of disease — 
The icy touch of death is near my heart — 
The gushing current freezes as it flow^s — 
Ernest I am not now afraid to die. 
Though life to me ne'er looked so sweet before. 
I would, if God so willed, be pleased to stay 
A little longer in the garden W'here 
The dew^-drops fall, your aching heart to cheer, 
And o'er you shed the halo of a love 
More strong than death, and keep my watch beside 
The jewels God hath loaned to us. The tears 
That fall from eyes which never more shall see 
A mother's form I would as gently dry, 
2* 



34: ERNEST MURRAY; 

But God hath ordered otherwise, and I 

Stand ready to obey the stern decree. 

I only Avait the summons to receive, 

Content to go, whenever he so wills. 

You must not weep for me when I am dead, 

Nor murmur now that I am doomed to die. 

Thou must give back to God the boon of love 

Which he but loaned to thee. There is a spot 

In yonder grove, close by the river's brink, 

Where a creeping vine entwines the willow. 

Long time ago I sat beside that spot. 

It was one eve. The sun was sinking low 

Behind the pillars of his golden throne. 

One star upon the distant east appeared. 

It glimmered on the twilight. A jewel 

Sent to deck the coronet of eve. 

A single gem, which nature, unadorned. 

Most prizes — in which it is ^ adorned the most.' 

It was there and then that I selected 

This quiet nook so sweet in solitude. 

The spot to be where I should love to lie 

When death dissolves this wondrous mechanism. 

'Tis near the church — the little Gothic church. 

Where, meekly bowed before the mercy-seat, 

Each Sabbath morn we breathed our litany. 

And when this heart of mine has ceased to beat. 

And my last tear of penitence is shed. 

Upon the little mound of waving grass, 

The lily bells will lift their tiny cups, 

Filled with the dew that weeping skies distill. 



OR, A DREAM OF LIFE. 35 

At hour of eve thou wilt one tear-drop shed 
On Julia's tomb, and scenes recall of joys 
Forever flown. On it a rose-bud plant, 
Which, watered by thy hand, will never fade." 
She spoke — and Ernest Murray thought his wife 
Had never looked so beautiful before. 
There was a lustre in her soft gray eye. 
One crimsoned spot was on her dimpled cheek, 
Which looked as though a rose-bud blossomed there. 
He tried to think that some delusive dream 
Was sent to mock him in that trying hour, 
That life could not be linked so close to death, 
But all in vain. 

The end was drawing near 
When Julia must forever pass from earth. 
Most tenderly he watched the drooping flower 
Which gave to life its freshness and its bloom ; 
By day and night he did his vigils keep. 
No ruthless wind upon her blew. Nothing 
That could disturb her tranquil brow e'er crossed 
The sunlight of her life. One summer eve, 
The moon was sailing on in her pale bark. 
Without there was a silence so profound, , 
It seemed like superstition to the soul. 
Ernest was bending o'er a form that lay 
So still that he could not discern it breathed. 
He feared that all was o'er — that never more 
Would those sweet lips, so ashy pale, repeat 
The name that once a fascination wove 
O'er ber which nothing else on earth could w^aye, 



36 ERNEST MUEEAY ; 

But soon her respiration grew distinct. 
The voice its wonted melody regained. 
Her eye, with lustre all so like its own, 
Looked up, as she her eyelids slowly raised. 
She recognized them all — and speaking said : 
"How sweet it is to die — to fall asleep 
When Christ is near ! What music, Ernest, does 
My senses thrill ? What beauteous forms are those 
Which hover o'er this drooping form of mine ? 
The music is not our Julia's. Oh ! no. 
Her strains are sweet, but not so sweet as those 
Which fill my ear with transports of delight. 
Ernest, my sight is failing. It grows dim. 
I see not thee, nor do I see the forms 
That, weeping, hover o'er my dying couch. 
But still I hear a sound. It is the sound 
Of angel wings. Those ministers of light 
Keep watch and Avard o'er me in this dark hour. 
I see, amid the darkness, their bright forms — 
I hear their golden harps upon the breeze. 
Sweeter than zephyrs 'mid the summer trees, 
As they float o'er the river — that river 
Which divides this world of empty shadows 
From the w^orld that knows not of a shadow. 
Ernest, it must be death I'm feeling now. 
The dew is clotted on my fevered brow. 
Kiss me, oh ! kiss me, ere I pass beyond 
The confines of a life so truly blest. 
Farewell ! farewell !" Her breathing ceased — and 
XiQW, 



OR, A DREAM OF LIFE. 37 

All that remained to Ernest was the form, 
So icy cold, of her he fondly loved. 
'Twas fearful to behold the grief that wrung 
His breaking heart on that bright moonlit night. 
He lived in Julia, and in her he lost 
Whatever of earthly bliss this earth could give. 
He was the sunlight on her path by day, 
And she was more than moon to him by night — 
Her presence woke an echo in his heart. 
Which not a sound of care had power to hush. 
The third day after she had ceased to breathe, 
The bell was tolling from the Gothic tower, 
And slowly on the solemn pageant moved, 
Which bore his Julia to her resting-jDlace. 
A weeping crowd was gathered by the bier, 
As those words, '' I am the resurrection 
And the life," proclaimed that death was van- 
quished. 
They laid her body down. Within the grove. 
Beside the stream, she sleeps the sleep of death. 
Dust to dust — these were the words repeated. 
No other sound was heard, unless it was 
The sob of bleeding hearts, now left to mourn. 
The sun that rose next morning on the hills 
Shone brightly on each tree, and shrub, and flower ; 
The Gothic church looked down upon the plain. 
While o'er the altar, now so still and pure. 
The light fell tremblingly. It seemed to feel 
The sad, sad change that bowed those loving 
hearts. 



38 



But all ! the beauty of that risen sun 

By contrast made more desolate the home 

Where Ernest now was bowed in deepest griei ; 

"While to the spot upon yon rising hill. 

That Gothic church so calm in its repose, 

A deej)er sadness gave. The willow boughs 

Concealed the mound Avhere Julia was asleep. 

He did not murmur. God is merciful. 

The cup may have a bitter taste, but still 

The hand that holds it can at will transmute 

The bitter into sweet, and turn to smiles 

The tears that fall. So Ernest Murray felt. 

He took the flower, that now was crisp and sere. 

And placed it where it once again might bloom, 

Down in the lowest depths of his lone heart. 

And fondly hoped that he might ever breathe 

Its fragrance, who no more its bloom could see. 

Companionship he held with Julia dead, 

And dearly prized it. It was sweet to think 

That death could not the golden chain dissolve 

Of love, that binds two hearts in one. It was 

As true to God's own word as it was sweet. 

How could death dissolve a chain so welded, 

Or break the links which bind God's church in one ? 

Heart lives in heart. In sympathy and love 

The mystic spell is woven. It stronger grows 

With each expiring breath. Oh ! how can death 

Annihilate the laws of life ? or rend 

Asunder hearts that God designed to be 

The one communion, sealed in his own blood ? 



OR, A DEE AM OF LIFE. 39 

The anguished heart of Ernest Murray felt 
That death was ]30werless the bond to break 
That bound two hearts in one. It was this faith 
That nerved him. He smiled, while tears were 

falling 
Like drojDS of dew distilled from earth's dark 

skies. 
Henceforth he lived but for the summer flowers. 
Which in his Eden grew. He lived to bless 
The poor, who oft her soothing hand had felt, 
And caught the echoes of her stej^, as she 
Was wont to minister to them. His days 
To godlike charity he gave. His nights 
To homestead joys. Eyes to the blind he was — 
Feet to the lame — and to the hungry, bread. 
Where'er he moved, lips of the poor blessed him. 

A house he built, wherein the destitute 
Might shelter find. The rose-bud blossomed there. 
It was made beautiful ; for he designed 
That it should look just like a home to them. 
With nothing to remind them of the change 
That time had wrought. Near to the honored 

grave 
Of Julia this building stood. So lovely 
Were the adjacent grounds, that none could spurn 
The gift or fail to welcome it as home. 
How long he lived, it is not my design 
To tell the reader — or where they laid him 
When he died. For where, but by Julia's side, 
Would Ernest lie, when he was laid to rest ? 



40 ERNEST MURRAY ; 

I might the curtain lift, that hides from view 
The sweet domestic life and homestead joys 
Of those five daughters. Each lived the centre 
Of attraction here. They grew together, 
Like buds upon one stem, in faith serene. 
But then I should the wisest rule transgress, 
And weary with fatigue where I would charm. 
'Tis better far the sequel to commit 
To those who love to j^icture for themselves ; 
And who, perhaps, are better skilled to paint 
The beautiful and true within a world 
Which does the canvas to the limner hold, 
So full of gay or tragic incidents. 
A single sketch is all that I can give : 
The rest I leave to those who poets are. 
While from the scene I pass to dream no more, 
Almost repentant that I dreamed at all. 



A moral learn. How potent is the spell 
Of woman's faith in this dark fitful hour ! 
How vigils kept, and words of silent prayer. 
Are blessed of God the ills of life to heal ! 
They are so like the secret, subtle powers 
That rule the air and mould the earth at will — 
The all-pervading light — the pearly dew — 
That one can scarcely tell the force he feels. 
And still another moral lies concealed 
Beneath the web unwoven of a life 
Which all who on it gaze may emulate. 



OE, A DEEAM OF LIFE. 41 

It is, how sweet a homestead may be made 
By unpretending, meekest deeds of love ; 
How much of music may be wafted o'er 
The social board where, each returning eve, 
The loved ones gather to disport in smiles. 
And every string to melody is tuned, 
By those who skillful are in the great art. 



SONNETS. 



SONNETS. 



THE HIDDIING-BIRD. 

The Humming-bird hovers o'er flowers ia spring, 
It tastes of the sweets that hidden lie there. 
While its low, plaintive notes float on the air, 
And the echo brings back, on viewless wing. 
The murmuring sound of its tuneful string. 
A stranger to grief, unburdened by care. 
It revels 'mid roses and lilacs fair, 
Which over the zephyrs rich odors fling. 
The smallest of all the birds of the grove, 
Yet the richest in the vesture it wears. 
It loves in the vale on glad wing to rove, 
While its pleasures with the humblest it shares. 
The bright fields of blue let others explore, 
The Humming-bird flits the lily-bells o'er. 



46 SONNETS. 



THE SUNBEAJVI. 

I KEST on the flowers just bathed in the dew, 
I tremble on trees that nod in the breeze, 
And quiver on waves that course o'er the seas, 
And line the dark clouds that float on the view. 
And give to the mountains their soft, gray hue. 
I crave not repose, each moment I seize 
To pencil the rose, make greener the trees. 
As I through ether my journey pursue. 
The darkness may dim the light of my eye, 
The solar eclipse my beauty conceal ; 
But oh ! in the heart there is a soft sky. 
O'er which not a shade or shadow can steal — 
The sunbeam of Hope rests on it ever ; 
Its sun is eclipsed, never ! no, never ! 



SONNETS. 47 



SUNDAY. 

Theee is a power in Sunday bells that stills 

The tumults of a heart which, like the sea, 

Is often robbed of its tranquillity ; 

And in the dew the holy mount distills 

There is a freshness which the bosom fills, 

"With which no thing on earth compared can be, 

However shrined in hallowed memory — 

The freshness of the everlasting hills. 

The Sunday sky is draped in softer blue 

Than aught that meets the gazer's eye below ; 

While it reveals a star of brighter hue 

Than telescope e'er kindled into glow. 

The Sunday rest speaks silently to me 

Of that last rest which ne'er shall broken be. 



48 S0N:5fETS. 



THE OLD POPLAR AT AXXAPOLIS. 

Oh ! I remember well the tulip-tree. 

Beneath whose overhanging boughs, at eve, 

I loved to sit and golden visions weave. 

When hope was painting scenes so bright for me. 

And every leaflet moved to melody. 

I never dreamed those visions could deceive, 

Or disappointment could a shadow leave 

Upon a heart so buoyant and so free. 

I hear the south wind, as it breathed that night, 

When I reclined beneath the soothing shade ; 

But ah ! the forms have faded from my sight. 

Which once, with me, beneath that old tree played. 

The stalwart branches hover in their might, 

While I remain confounded and dismayed. 



SONNETS. 49 



THE SEA-SHELL. 

There is in ocean-bed a tinted shell, 
Whose hues surpass the lily and the rose, 
And vie with sunset, when on clouds it glows, 
As daylight bids the earth a sad farewell, 
And stars weave o'er the sky their silent spell, 
And find reflection in the wave that flows 
From morning's dawn unto the evening's close. 
Through meadows green, and the sequesteired dell. 
It breathes an echo of the ocean roar, 
That never palls upon the listening ear ; 
It murmurs ever of the distant shore. 
When billows, capped with foam, are dashing near 
'Tis strange a shell should never silent be, 
When torn from its cold bed beneath the sea, 
3 



50 SONNETS. 



THE CANARY'S LAMENT. 

I SIT and sing, and yet am sad to-day ; 
For she who did my pleasant bondage share 
Has dropped her wing to sleep in silence, where 
No sunbeams o'er the drooping lilies play, 
And not a trilling note steals o'er the way, 
To cheer the leafless regions of despair, 
Or banish from my nest the cloud of care. 
Or chase the anguish from my heart awa}^. 
'Tis sad to sing, and never, never feel 
The pulses beat, in throbbings faint and low ; 
'Tis sad to know that death hath placed his seal 
On Beauty's form and overarching brow. 
The light withdraw, let shadows o'er me stea., 
And leave me perched alone upon the bough. 



SONNETS. 5 1 



THE RIVER. 

Flow on, ye bounding waves ! The sky above 
Looks down on you with eyes intensely blue, 
Which rival in their tints the softest hue 
Of violets, that breathe the breath of love, 
And hold enchained the zephyrs as they rove, 
In transports wild o'er beds of sparkling dew — 
The richest sight that meets the gazer's view, 
Or tempts from eager flight the cooing dove. 
There's beauty in the waters as they flow, 
Now bounding on with rush, and now serene ; 
There is a music, whispered soft and low. 
In streams that glide the rugged rocks between. 
We bid them welcome as they come and go. 
And gaze delighted on their silvery sheen. 



52 SONNETS. 



THE BRIDE. 

The bride looked sweetly, as she stood before 
The surpliced priest on her bright bridal day, 
As fresh and fair as early buds in May. 
A vail upon her sunny brow she wore, 
The fleecy folds one diamond sparkled o'er ; 
Beside her stood two bridesmaids young and gay, 
Who o'er the festive group held gentle sway. 
Like dew-drops on the lily bells of yore. 
There was a flush of joy in her soft eye, 
Upon her ruby lips there was a smile, 
The angel of her hopes was bending nigh, 
While in the distance glowed life's sea-girt isle. 
May future years reveal no other sky. 
And not one pang of grief erase that smile. 



■ SONNETS. 63 



THE MOON. 

I SEE thee in thy tranquil sphere to-night ; 

In every pulse I feel thy soothing spell, 

As dancing o'er the wave, or wildwood dell. 

Thou dost reveal new beauties to my sight, 

With one soft star that near thee shines so bright. 

There's music in the toll of vesper bell. 

E'en though it strikes of hope the solemn knell, 

And tells of joys that take their sombre flight : 

But ah ! the music of thy mystic lyre 

More sweetly falls upon the listening ear, 

Thy beauty does a richer zest inspire. 

Than aught below thy crescent, horned sphere. 

The poet finds in thee immortal fire, 

And never lonely feels when thou art near. 



54 SONNETS. 



THE ECHO. 

How sweetly in the vale, at dewy eve. 
Which lies between two gently sloping hills, 
Where roses, intermixed with daffodils, 
Do o'er the senses fragrant garlands w^eave, 
In forms of beauty that can ne'er deceive, 
The echo sounds. It floats o'er running rills, 
And soothes with its soft note the heart it thrills. 
E'en though it may but fascinate to grieve. 
But echoes in the heart are sweeter still, 
If life be moulded by the will divine ; 
If not, those echoes do the bosom fill 
With woe that overclouds that hallowed shrine. 
God grant me grace life's duties to fulfill, 
That sweetest echoes may be ever mine. 



SONNETS, 55 



KEBLE. 

Oh ! how can England fail o'er thee to weep, 

Or hold thy hallowed dust in golden urn, 

Or from thy tuneful lyre the lesson learn. 

The seasons of the sacred year to keep ; 

Or from the harvest sown the beauty reap 

Of flowers of hope, that to the sunlight turn, 

Or else for cooling shade in silence yearn, 

While they on beds of dew serenely sleep ? 

Thou hast a Shakespeare in thy classic crown. 

Great Milton lends to thee a halo now. 

Thy sun of glory never can go down, 

While two such names are written on tliy brow 

And yet in Keble, we a light behold. 

Which crimsons all thy sky with streaks of gold. 



66 SONNETS. 



THE CANARY'S LAMENT. 

'Tis strange that I am left to chirp alone, 
No loved one near to cheer my solitude, 
Or lend enchantment to my changeful mood ; 
While joys, once tasted, have forever flown. 
And flowers along the wood-path sere are strewn, 
And sorrows on the leaden hours obtrude, 
Which once were by the syren charmer wooed. 
With melting strains a nightingale might own. 
Oh ! tell me where the one, so swift of wing. 
So full of all that lends to life its spell. 
Now dwells? in what sweet grove she loves to 

sing. 
Or in what calm, secluded woodland dwell ? 
Rich in the past, I to its pleasures cling, 
And siofh to hear the notes I loved so well. 



SONNETS. 57 



THE RAINBOW. 

A BOW was bent in beauty o'er the sky, 
By Him who hung the clouds in glory there, 
His bright pavilion in the upper air, 
Not far from where the bright- winged seraphs fly, 
When they in pity leave their thrones on high. 
That sky does many precious jewels wear ; 
No rival does with it its splendor share, 
And yet but one bent bow there meets the eye. 
It rests on earth, and spans the arch of heaven. 
An emblem of the hopes that wait to cheer 
The heart that pants to taste of sins forgiven. 
When floods of wrath shall never more appear. 
It tinges with its hues the brow of even. 
Yet stranger still, 'twill span the golden sphere. 
3* 



58 so^'NETS. 



THE COLLEGE GREEN AT ANNAPOLIS. 

Beside the Severn in its tranquil flow, 

Where beauty sits enthroned in light serene, 

I linger still upon the college green, 

Where I, delighted, strayed long time ago, 

When sunset skies were in a summer glow. 

There is no change in that familiar scene, 

All things continue now as they had been — 

The hall upon the hill, the tree below. 

But where are now the forms of beauty bright? 

And where the castles built exceeding fair ? 

'Tis echo asks, amid the gloom of night. 

What thing hath rung such changes in the air ; 

And every leaf that quivers on the sight 

The answer gives, 'Tis death that's sleeping there. 



SONNETS. 50 



THE MORXIXG TWILIGHT. 

The nisrht recedes. The starligrht fades awav. 
The birds their nests forsake to soar on high, 
And fill with blithesome song the echoing sky. 
The dew-drops on the smiling lilies lay, 
As they look np to hail the dawn of day — 
The south wind breathes a low, responsive sigii, 
While golden flashes gladden heart and eye, 
Like gleams of hope, that flatter while they stay. 
'Tis strange that aught so beautiful and fair, 
So seldom should the human bosom thrill ; 
'Tis strange that sounds so sweet should float on 

air, 
And yet theii* sweetness waste on vale and hill. 
The morning twilight wooes us from repose, 
To sing with bii'ds, and pluck the blushiDg rose. 



60 SONNETS. 



THE EVENING TWILIGHT. 

There is a silence in the twilight hour — 
When one lone star upon the sky is seen, 
Which interposes day and night between, 
More eloquent to stir with tuneful power 
The dwellers in life's desolate bower, 
Than wave of ocean in its spangled sheen, 
Or whispers of the winds that intervene. 
Which linger on the half-developed flower. 
With muffled step it steals o'er things below 
And calms the heart it touches in its flight ; 
And as it parts with daylight in its glow. 
It welcomes with a smile the sable night : 
And with a whisper breathed, so soft and low, 
It does to contemplations sweet invite. 



SONNETS. 61 



THE HUMAN VOICE. 

There is upon this earth no music tone 

Which can with thine in sweetness e'er compare, 

Be it the tuneful harp, or bird in air, 

Or winds that whisper through the starry zone, 

To those who do the tranquil beauty own. 

It falls as gently on the heart of care, 

As dew-drops do upon the lilies fair. 

And lingers, when all other sounds have flown. 

It is the very soul of music here, 

It tints the smile that o'er the features play. 

And lends enchantment to the falling tear, 

And turns the shadows of the night to day. 

Its wa^es of song float on the listening ear, 

When death is hushing every other lay. 



62 SONNETS. 



THE SERE LEAF. 

There is a beauty e'en in things that fade. 

Be it the star that pales upon the vieAV, 

Or the dissolving drop of morning dew. 

Or moss-grown tower that crumbles in the shade, 

Or trunk dismembered, near the unsheltered glade 

O'er which the ivy creeps with changeless hue, 

Or cloud that sweeps the boundless sea of blue. 

Or snow-flake on the hunter's pathway laid. 

We in the withered leaf the type descry 

Of life that blooms awhile and then decays — 

Green, when the zephyr o'er its morning sky. 

By roses kissed, in sportive pastime plays — 

But sere, when winter, with its icy breath. 

Wraps o'er the earth the sable pall of death. 



SONNETS. 63 



THE SHOWER. 

Rich are the treasures in the skies above ! 

'Tis there the sun dispenses life and light, 

'Tis there the moonbeams quiver on the sight, 

And there the stars in tranquil orbits rove. 

As they reflect their Maker's pitying love. 

We feel their power in its mysterious might, 

We on them gaze with wonder and delight, 

While they to duty ever faithful prove. 

But ah ! there is in gently falling shower, 

Which clothes the fields in robes of richest green. 

And wooes to life the drooping, shriveled flower. 

Whose beauty would unfolded ne'er have been, 

A silent, subtle, all-sustaining power. 

Which sunlight quickens, or the night's pale queen. 



64 SONNETS, 



WORDSWORTH. 

Thou didst the sonnet save from cynic sneer, 

And consecrate it to the muse anew, 

By drops poured o'er it of the morning dew. 

From thy poetic sky, so soft and clear. 

And now that we are breathing sonnets here, 

We would in sonnet write of Wordsworth too. 

Who was to genius and to virtue true — 

The lunar light of the poetic sphere. 

Of Shakesj)eare thou didst sing in tuneful rhyme- 

Of Milton too, whose name can never die ; 

And as we catch the sweet melodious chime 

Of bells, that vocal make Old England's sky, 

We will the name of Wordsworth still repeat. 

And make the scroll of England's fame complete. 



SOXNETS. 



A GREEJT OLD AGE. 

There is a freshness in the morning air, 
A beauty in the first bright morning beam, 
A soft, bewitching spell in life's young dream, 
When we are free from dull corroding care, 
And not a darksome shadow lingers there ; 
While hope is reigning in the heart supreme. 
And our gay bark floats smoothly o'er the stream 
Which does no billow on its bosom bear. 
But ah ! there is a grandeur in the flow 
Of time, when its last wave beats on the shore ; 
There is a softness in the sunset glow, 
Surpassing that which floods the morning o'er ; 
Age is the crown that holds life's brightest gem, 
Of youth it is the golden diadem. 



66 SON'XETS. 



CHILDHOOD. 

My childhood dawned 'mid trees and smilinc 

flowers, 
As softly as the morning dawns in spring ; 
Xo bird with gayer heart did ever sing 
In mountain-groves, or in the garden bowers, 
A sweeter strain of welcome to the hours 
O'er which the zephyrs did their fragrance fling, 
As they moved on, with gentle, outspread wing, 
To kiss the rose-bud watered well by showers. 
But ah! no childhood now is left to me; 
Its verdant bloom is shriveled by the blast. 
Its light, gay step, so buoyant and so free. 
Moves slowly down the vale, by clouds o'ercast. 
The dr^am of life is fading fast away ; 
But one bright link survives the wreck to-day. 



SONNETS. 07 



CHANGE. 

My heart beats warmly for the good and old. 

What's new possesses little charm for me. 

I love to sit beneath the same old tree 

Whose leaves are somethnes green and somethnes 

gold. 
I love to tread the halls of antique mould, 
Which echo still the voice of youthful glee, 
Resounding with the heart's true melody. 
I love as well the ruins grand and bold. 
Some men love change. It thrills them Avith de- 
light ; 
But give to me the moss-grown rural home, 
Where I can sit, and picture in the light 
The forms of beauty that around me roam. 
I ask no more ; the same bright stars and sun 
Are all I need till duty's task is done. 



68 SONNETS. 



VISIT TO ST. JOHN'S, ANNAPOLIS, AFTER 
FORTY YEARS' ABSENCE. 

The friends I love no longer roam with me, 

I tread alone the now deserted hall. 

And pluck the ivy from the moss-grown wall. 

Subdued and saddened by the change I see. 

There stands the noted, grand old tulip-tree, 

Which did refreshing shade afford to all, 

Whose footsteps did in echoes gently fall 

"Where every sound was tuned to melody. 

'Twas but the other day I sauntered where 

I loved to linger, long, long time ago. 

The tree, dismembered, still is standing there, 

The Severn glides along in tranquil flow ; 

But ah I the loved ones, they are sleeping now. 

Death's icy signet is upon their brow. 



SONXETS. 69 



DOANE. 

There was a poet in this western sphere, 
Whose liquid strains are floating o'er us still, 
Like echoes from some distant rising hill. 
As sweet in tone as they in tone were clear — 
The whispers of a love that lingers near. 
Thoughts of the beautiful did ever fill 
His noble heart, till it in death grew still, 
And felt no more the pressure of a tear. 
His name is wafted on each passing breeze, 
Enshrined in hearts that owned his soothing 

power ; 
'Tis written on the roses and the trees 
That grace the banks of Riverside this hour ; 
It knows no bound of clime, or rolling seas; 
All countries claim as theirs our brig-htest flower. 



10 SONNETS. 



ST. JOHN'S, ANNAPOLIS. 

'Tis strange that we should wander all alone, 

And muse upon the sunny days gone by, 

When Hope was spanning with her bow the sky, 

And every wind breathed a familiar tone. 

And every eye with recognition shone. 

While Fancy did on golden pinions fly 

'Mid scenes that seemed too bright to droop or 

die. 
Nor sky, nor earth, nor forms beside our own. 
But ah ! 'tis not more strange than it is true, 
That Ave who walk the classic grounds to-day, 
And gaze upon the same bright drops of dew 
That sparkle where we once did sportive play. 
Will find but little left to greet us here, 
Save faded garlands and the heart's warm tear. 



SONNETS. 71 



MOSES. 

A LITTLE babe ! one tear-drop in its eye, 
Was rocked upon the bosom of the Nile ; 
There lingered on its lips a cherub smile, 
As Pharaoh's daughter passed in beauty by. 
She did the ark in its lone place descry, 
Then on the sleeping babe she gazed awhile. 
It seemed a rose-bud, torn from some green isle, 
Which cruel hands condemned unwept to die. 
But ah ! there was a miracle of grace, 
Which God in mercy wrought sublimely there ; 
A chosen leader for the chosen race 
Was laid in pity on that bosom fair. 
To bask in sunshine, fed on royal dew. 
Till Horeb's mount should burst upon the view. 



72 SONNETS. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

L. M. E. 

I SAW thee in thy childhood, fresh and fair, 
A star that twinkled in life's morning sky, 
Reflected in the waves that rippled by, 
^►With not a cloud to hide thy beauty there. 
I heard the echo on the pure fresh air, 
Of tiny footsteps, as they lingered nigh. 
And caught the diamond in thy soft, gray eye, 
Which did the hue of tender feeling wear. 
I saw thee when thou wert a blushing bride. 
Borne o'er the seas, in classic grounds to roam ; 
And as the moments sped on golden tide, 
I saw thee cast sweet glances back on home ; 
And then I heard thy prayer, " God's will be 

done," 
As angels bore thee past the setting sun. 



SONNETS. T3 



IN MEMORIAM. 

L. M. E. 

Theee is a beauty in the sun-lit face, 
Which o'er the senses steals with silent power, 
As we repose within the shaded bower. 
And, one by one, its sunny features trace, 
As full of feeling as of nameless grace. 
It finds reflection in the blushing flower. 
And yields new fragrance each revolving hour, 
Till God removes it to His chosen place. 
There is a beauty, richer, softer far^ 
It is the beauty of the heart and mind ; 
Bright as the beaming of some distant star. 
Subdued, exalted, gentle, and refined, 
Each beauty did in thee united meet, 
As pure in life as thou in death wert sweet. 
4 



V4 SONNETS. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

L. M. E. 

The orphan loved to greet thee with a smile, 

And thou didst love to brush away the tear 

That gathered on his drooping eyelid here; 

And with thy gentle voice the hours beguile, 

Which darkened in the morn life's checkered isle. 

The echoes of thy footsteps lingered near. 

The sound was music to the orphan's ear ; 

It soothed and cheered his beating heart the while. 

To sit beside the stricken hallowed band, 

Did richer pleasure e'er afford to thee, 

Than taste of riches placed at thy command, 

The blended treasures of the land and sea. 

Thyself unconscious of a mother's care ; 

Thou didst thy wealth of heart with orphans share. 



so^'^'ETS. 75 



IX MEMOKIAM. 

L. M. E. 

The sweetest sight that I have ever seen 
Was when I stood beside thv youthful bier ; 
And on it, watered by the orphan's tear, 
Was laid the cypress twig, so fresh and green, 
With here and there a rosebud placed between. 
The hymn they sung still floats upon my ear, 
So plaintive in its note, so soft and clear, 
It seemed the echo of an anguish keen. 
We stood within the chapel that sad eve, 
A group that prized thee in thy woman's bloom ; 
And as we turned aside the spot to leave, 
A tear we dropped upon thy honored tomb ; 
But ah I the orphans feel that there we laid 
Their ray of sunshine and refreshing shade. 



76 SONNETS. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



L. M. E. 



Unselfish was the love that glowed in thee ; 
Thy gentle soul was feeling's hallowed shrine. 
O'er which the sun was ever wont to shine. 
When life was all attuned to melody, 
And hope was bounding on with step so free. 
No gift from God was ever held as thine — 
To share with others was thy gift divine, 
The golden law of heaven-born charity* 
'Tis sweet to trace the fertilizing stream, 
That wends its way along the sunny plain ; 
'Tis sweet to note the penetrating beam, 
That does the drooping plant revive again. 
Thy love distilled its dew-drops far and near. 
It lived in smiles, yet never spurned a tear. 



SONNETS. 77 



SABBATH EYE. 

The Sim has sunk beneath the waves to rest, 
The sweet-toned bells have died upon the ear, 
And I am seated sad and silent here, 
Whilst I my faith in Christ by works attest, 
My title to the regions of the blest. 
I look to see the gently falling tear, 
I wait the muffled step of love to hear, 
The fairest of the graces, and the best. 
One Sabbath more from me forever fled ! 
Its soft, persuasive, solemn pleadings gone ! 
I breathe the scent the rose of Sharon shed, 
And sigh to think that I am left alone. 
Oh ! may the rose of faith transplanted be, 
The one bright flower the Sabbath yields to me. 



V8 SONNETS. 



TO THE LATE W. S., Jr. 

Tavo years ago I stood beside thy bier. 

And wondered how it was that one so true, 

So hallowed in the bright baptismal dew. 

Should not be longer left to linger here, 

And garlands weave o'er home and kindred dear. 

No star within its ocean depths of blue 

Did e'er reflect a richer, softer hue. 

O'er all who breathed its quiet, holy sphere. 

A mind God gave thee, of surpassing power, 

A will that never wavered from the right, 

A heart that fresher grew each fleeting hour. 

And dewy made the darkest shades of night. 

Oh ! how I loved thee, tongue can never tell ; 

As sad, I whisper still, the word farewell. 



SONNETS. 



THE CHURCH. 

God built the Church an Eden home to be 
For those ^vho shed the penitential tear. 
Longing to taste the Saviour's presence here, 
Who rules the land and deep surrounding sea, 
Bright mirror of his own immensity. 
Love dwells in thee, exempt from base-born fear, 
While manna falls from skies serene and clear. 
No dweller shuns an interdicted tree — 
Thou art the ark, tost on the troubled waves. 
To ride securely till the sun appears. 
Refulgent, o'er the sad, forgotten graves. 
Which once were moistened by the heart's warm 

tears. 
Bright as the sun, as tranquil and as fair 
As is the moon that sails her bark on air. 



80 SONNETS. 



GEORGE HERBERT. 

Geoege Herbert is a name that dearer grows 

As wave on wave rolls on the beaten shore, 

And Time's frail bark speeds on with muffled oar, 

Each passing year it does, like budding rose, 

New beauties to the wondering eye disclose, 

And richer sweets than it distilled before. 

Of which the more we taste, we crave the more, 

On which no ruthless wind in anger blows. 

No priest of God was truer to his vow ; 

None at the altar stood in purer white ; 

The Pentecostal dews were on his brow. 

In diamond drops that glistened on the sight. 

No poet ever swept a sweeter lyre. 

None could such echoes in the heart inspire. 



SONNETS. 81 



MR. C- 



I KNOW not who by God are blessed the more, 

Those who in sweet contentment linger here, 

And weave a smile upon a falling tear ; 

Or those who walk upon the other shore. 

And view the rich and " smiling landscape o'er," 

While waves of living light are flowing near. 

And golden fruits upon the tree appear. 

Sweeter than ever grew on it before. 

For they who wait in meekness here below 

Are each day adding to their crown a gem — 

The tears which from the font of feeling flow. 

Do more resplendent make our diadem. 

Two loved ones, borne on seraph wings, have 

gone. 
While thou art left to sow in tears alone. 
4* 



82 • SONNETS. 



TO MR. C- 



Three buds of beauty in the garden grow, 
Where late a mother's gentle footsteps strayed, 
While o'er her brow the cooling zephyr played, 
And skies were kindled in a vernal glow, 
And smiles were dancing on the waves below. 
Those buds were bathed in sunshine, or in shade, 
The early dew was on their petals laid. 
And no bleak winter wind did o'er them blow. 
That mother's eye no longer vigil keeps. 
Those buds are now intrusted to your care. 
She in the tranquil shades of Oak Hill sleeps. 
They breathe their fragrance on the warm spring 

air. 
Oh ! see that they are trained in faith to bloom. 
And thus the greener make their mother's tomb. 



SONNETS. 83 



DORCAS. 

There is a beauty in a gentle deed, 

That far outshines the Tvoodbine or the rose, 

Or lily-bell that in the woodland blows. 

Or cowslip on the wide extended mead, 

On which the zephyrs from the southland feed. 

For it the pang allays of hidden woes. 

It lulls the aching heart to soft repose. 

And ointment pours on hearts that aching bleed. 

'Twas beauty such as this — which gave to thee 

Thy sweet enchantment in this vale of tears ; 

The garments hung upon the wall we see. 

While not an outline of thy form appears. 

'Tis only deeds of love that never die. 

All else must fade in earth, and sea, and sky, 



84 SONNETS. 



LADIES' ASSOCIATION. 

There is a sweetness in tlie tranquil hour 
When we our hearts attune to pity's call, 
And weave, in deeds of love, a coronal 
Which shall outlive the brightest vernal flower 
That dew-drop ever bathed, or falling shower — 
Those deeds of love whose silent footsteps fall 
In cabins rude, not in the gilded hall. 
In lanes where hunger prowls, not in the bower. 
I love to mingle with the good and fair, 
Who feel for others' woes, and ever seek 
To plant the rose of sweet contentment there, 
And like the Master tender are, and meek ; 
For they are jewels which his crown make up. 
The diaraond drops that sparkle in his cup. 



SONNETS. 85 



THE ARK. 

There was no sign of an impending woe 

In earth, or sea, or azure-tinted sky ; 

The winds were hushed to rest — a low-breathed 

sigh 
Was' wafted o'er the waves in gentle flow ; 
The flowers, delighted, drank of dew below. 
Through groves the birds, on eager wing did fly. 
While hope was sketching beauty to the eye 
In forms that made the very canvas glow, 
But still a judgment brooded o'er the world, 
Foreseen by Noah, and by him foretold; 
The ark a banner o'er the waste unfurled. 
In pledge of love, that brighter shone than gold. 
The flood was sent in judgment on our race — 
The type of pity in the ark we trace. 



86 SONNETS. 



TO THE LATE 



I FANCY I still see tliee, seated where 
The blue waves dance upon the Severn shore, 
In converse with the mighty men of yore. 
Transported by the beautiful and fair, 
Which, as in mirror, lie reflected there. 
Thy lofty brow ambition's signet bore, 
Thy calm blue eye a look determined wore. 
Their fame to rival and their glory share. 
And well didst thou thy early vow fulfill ; 
For Severn does, in every rolling wave. 
Thy name repeat, till echo feels the thrill 
Thy tuneful tongue to hill and valley gave. 
As sure as wave runs coursing to the bay. 
So sure will thy proud name ne'er fade away. 



SONNETS. 



OX A DECEASED BABE. 

To see a bud in silent beauty laid, 

Where spring will never more breathe on the 

flowers, 
And clouds no more dissolve in gentle showers. 
Calls forth a tear from eyes that look dismayed. 
In morningr's dawninsc blush or eveninsc's shade, 
Upon the faded bloom in earthly bowers. 
Or gaze on muflBled step of weary hours. 
When disappointed hopes the heart invade. 
'Tis sad to see an infant laid to sleep, 
When birds are chirping on the forest trees ; 
While we survive, who still our vigils keep. 
And sig'i our griefs upon the midnight breeze. 
But hush thy weak complaint, thou child of care ! 
That bud does now a richer blossom bear. 



88 SONNETS. 



THE BRIDE. 

A BRIDE in flowing robes of white I see, 

Of beauty such as seldom meets the eye, 

Like star that twinkles in the deep blue sky ; 

So full of grace and meek simplicity. 

Her step Avas like a fairy's, light and free, 

Her form the cunning chisel ne'er could mould 

In marble, or in block of burnished gold — 

Compact, yet perfect type of symmetry. 

A wreath of orange blossoms in her hair, 

A vail suspended from her classic brow. 

Her curls in auburn clusters hanging there. 

Her lips just parted to repeat her vow. 

She looked in feature, form, and air, 

A shrine at which the bravest heart might bow. 



SONNETS. 89 



THE CANARY'S LA^IENT. 

I LOOK around my cage, 'tis strange to me, 
It seems to be so sad, deserted now. 
The damp death-dews are settled on one brow 
That once was from the touch of sorrow free, 
As tranquil as the imswept summer sea, 
Or leaflet on the unstirred forest bough. 
That waved in beauty o'er our plighted vow, 
Whose golden chords are woven still o'er me. 
Oh ! I would break this fearful sleej) with song. 
And if these bars did not my flight restrain, 
I would in groves pursue my Avay along. 
Till I once more my mate should meet again, 
Or else I would my funeral dirge prolong, 
Till death should snap these tuneful chords in 
twain. 



00 SONNETS. 



TO MR. McC. 

I COULD envy the sky its gorgeous hue, 

The earth its soft robe of delicate green, 

The ocean its wave of silvery sheen. 

If I could but find a limner in you. 

Rich in expression, to nature as true. 

Your pencil depicts whatever is seen. 

The golden of morn, the twilight serene. 

The dew on the rose, the violet blue. 

This world is a picture, hung on the air, 

The model of what a picture should be, 

Distinct in its outline, tinted with care. 

The canvas reflects vale, mountain, and sea ; 

While over it hang the folds of the sky, 

Through which, here and there, a star we descry. 



SOXXETS. 91 



THE DEW-DROP. 

The earth hath diamonds which, when brought to 

view, 
Do with the evening star in splendor vie, 
When it is lighted with the lamps on high. 
But still there is in one bright drop of dew, 
A softer, richer, more transparent hue 
Than diamond yields, or star Avithin the sky, 
When not a cloud obscures the canopy 
Which folds the earth within a robe of blue. 
The diamond serves a fading brow to grace. 
The star adorns the tranquil brow of eve ; 
The beauty of the one we love to trace, 
The other does a holy halo weave. 
But dew-drops which the weeping skies distill, 
The brig:hter dew reflects on Zion's hill. 



92 SONNETS. 



ANNAPOLIS. 

ANNApoLis, how beautiful art thou ! 
The sweetest, fairest spot on earth to me. 
No rival can the palm, dispute with thee, 
Or wrest the laurel from thy aged brow, 
Or rob thee of thy children's plighted vow. 
What other sky in hue can softer be, 
What bluer wave can glimmer o'er the lea. 
Than lend to thee their soft enchantment now ? 
Thou art not richer in thy trees and flowers 
Than in the sons thou to the world hast given. 
Whose names are wafted on the dewy hours. 
In deathless echoes, through the vault of heaven. 
Nor Greece nor Rome can boast a fairer name. 
Or circle earth with brighter belt of flame. 



SONNETS. 93 



SPRING. 

The spring-time comes, and with it birth of flowers, 
The echo floats upon the scented air. 
While zephyrs breathe upon the daisies fair. 
The turtle builds its nest within the bower, 
The dew-drops bathe the early twilight hour. 
The rills meander through the meadows, where 
The herds are grazing, watched by jealous care. 
While o'er the sky no clouds in anger lower. 
Life has its spring-time. Flowers of faith and love 
May burst the fetters of the icy tomb ; 
And breezes soft from sunny realms may rove, 
Exultant 'mid the preexisting gloom ; 
The turtle in the heart may upward soar, 
And life its spring retain for evermore. 



94 SONNETS. 



SUMMER. ' 

Each season has its own bewitching spell ; 
For each commission bears from God on high. 
Who hung the earth on air, and formed the sky 
The home to be where stars of glory dwell, 
With sun to walk ihe day as sentinel. 
The summer beauty spreads before the eye, 
Which does with spring and golden autumn vie. 
Which winter's frozen gems can ne'er excel. 
The summer steals from spring the tinted hue, 
It wears a robe of full as rich a green. 
The ripened fields of grain burst on the view. 
On which the harvest moon looks down serene. 
It lies between the first sweet budding flowers, 
And withered leaves that rustle in the bowers. 



SONNETS. 95 



AUTUMN. 

Tkou art the golden season of the year ; 

The winds that fan thy cheek are fresh and chill, 

The sun's warm ray declines upon the hill 

Of summer, Avhile its shadows linger near 

At early eve, on which there rests the tear 

Of dew that mingles with the murmuring rill, 

Whose music does the ear with rapture fill. 

While hues of glory rest on leaflets sere. 

There is a poesy that thrills the soul 

In withered leaf, which nature tints to please. 

There is a music in the winds that roll 

Their waves of song amid the leafless trees. 

There is a spell in hues that brighter shine. 

When death a garland hangs o'er beauty's shrine. 



96 SONNETS. 



WINTER. 

Some say that winter is a cheerless thing, 
They sigh to think that it will come again. 
In snow-white robe and sound of pelting rain. 
They shudder as they feel its icy wing, 
And deem the poets mad who of it sing. 
And yet rich gems adorn its drear domain. 
And beauty sits enthroned on hill and plain. 
In strangest contrast with the budding spring. 
Bright crystals cluster on the drooping bough, 
Like diamonds strung upon a silver thread — 
A wreath of evergreen entwines its brow. 
O'er which the frozen dews their halo shed ; 
The life that buried lies in winter's tomb 
Will yield again a richer, fresher bloom. 



